Fidem Fallere
by Miranda Panda-chan
Summary: To break a promise. She watched him defend her--the enemy. Think about the promise he'll break, that he's already broken. Because she's dying, she thinks, and he'd have to choose which girl he wanted to save. And she knows it isn't going to be her. Rogan.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**A/N: So this has taken me about three months to write. The last part's already written, I'm just tweaking it up a bit. It should be up either later today or tomorrow. As always, please review.**

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Fidem Fallere

**By Miranda Panda-chan**

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::Part 1::

"_C'mon, I'll take care of you."_

"_You promise?"_

"_Yeah. Yeah, I promise."_

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"Rogue!" she'd been fighting Kid Omega, and was using Colossus's ability to deflect the spikes, having already taken out Arc Light and Multiple Man with the help of some other X-Men. She'd never even seen the car falling, couldn't have seen or heart it coming with all the roaring from the other flames, the yells from all the players, and the blood pounding in her ears. Pyro had made it special, just for her, getting Magneto to throw two cars meant just for his two best friends. Bobby had managed to grab a hold of Kitty before the one aimed at him had fallen. Rogue couldn't be so lucky. The steel skin had receded as Piotr's conscious left her, and the well-aimed kick had caught her off guard. The flaming car was sent crashing to the ground, exploding on impact. Kid Omega was obliterated as the flames swept the area, Rogue was thrown against a brick wall—her head cracking against it, and she knew, without a doubt, some ribs were definitely broken as the fender had been thrown with her. Blood ran down her neck and she grimaced at the realization. She stood, still able to move and too stubborn to just sit back and watch.

Psylocke was near the corner of the crashing building, moving her hands through the shadows and stealing the cure guns and randomly attacking the X-Men with them, sometimes breaking a soldier's neck from the shadow of his helmet on his head. Rogue slipped off a glove and crept toward her. She was too busy maneuvering through shadows to pay attention. Rogue planted a hand in the middle of her face, hoping to smother and put her out of commission. Psylocke twitched and thrashed for a moment before falling unconscious—victim to Rogue's own mutation. Rogue shook off the new personality quickly, before snapping the neck of the teen. She rushed away, searching any place she could be of use, searching for Logan or Storm, really. All of the sudden sharp pain flashed through her.

She didn't know what happened, or who gave her the injury; she didn't even know she'd been injured until she fell to the ground, unable to hold her own weight any longer. Someone had taken a shot at her. It hurt quite a bit more than it usually did when she fell, and she realized she was pushing wooden corkscrew spikes further into herself, causing more damage than was needed, a long cut in her side was what had first alerted her to pain—one of the spikes had missed, but had taken quite a bit of flesh with it—and from the amount of blood bleeding from it, she'd say it was deep. She didn't think the spikes had hit anything vital, considering she was still alive for the moment, but she knew that they were still lodged in her, which caused her to panic. An adrenaline rush was not something she needed at the moment. She tried pulling them, wrenching one out with every ounce of strength she had and biting her lip hard enough to make it bleed so she wouldn't scream. Weakly she grasped at the other one, but as she tugged the pain only worsened, and she didn't have the strength enough to pull it out—it was pushed far too deeply.

She watched the flames grow higher and higher. They were fighting Magneto again, and she couldn't remember who else, or if there was any other organization with him and his dumb Brotherhood, but she knew it was a harsh battle. One of those that had been brewing for days but the bloodshed hadn't started till about two hours ago. She cringed as a wave of pain washed over her as she gasped. Breathing was painful, that couldn't be a good sign.

She knew it would happen. She'd never forgotten her mortality, despite her mutant status. Being a freak among freaks doesn't mean you're invincible, just alone. Logan's powers had faded; she couldn't heal a bruise at any faster rate than any normal human. Even if he was still in her head, talking to her—being Logan and such. Of course, she also had Magneto talking to her on an hourly basis, almost. David had almost disappeared completely, begin overpowered by the two dominant male mutants. She had to stifle the dry laugh that bubbled to her lips as she felt the cool dirt against the left side of her face. She had three guys in her head, and there was barely enough room left for her own personality. It couldn't get much weirder than that.

She watched the battle with bleary eyes, silhouettes becoming fuzzier around the edges as they battled one another. She couldn't feel her legs anymore, the cold, wet dirt and the nauseating pain numbing the lower half of her body. She supposed she was thankful, it would have been a lot more painful if nature hadn't helped.

She thought about trying to get up and maybe do some more damage before giving up completely. But what could she do? They all knew her, Magneto hadn't kept her identity a secret; she was everyone's favorite freak on the Brotherhood's side. It bothered her that Magneto continuously tried to convert her to his way of thinking, his pre-war strategies and lectures on humans being the lesser species circling in her head. He'd been louder than usual as of late, but she figured that it was because he was so close in proximity. The X-men had been watching his movements recently, besides, their fates had been intertwined—it was no longer the Brotherhood against the humans: it had changed to a civil war, mutants versus mutants—the Brotherhood versus the X-men. And she wondered how it had come to that, and it saddened her to see Pyro among the many fighting against them. He'd been a good friend, if nothing else.

"A live one, eh?" a male asked from above her— she gathered from the disgusted look on his face and the way his question had been worded, he'd seen her attacker and had presumed she was dead. His black hair and olive skin gave her no indication to his identity or his mutation—which worried her more than she ever thought she could be in this state. He held his sharp pocket knife in the air above her, obviously his weapon of choice when not using his powers. She cursed under her breath, and she wished, more than ever, Logan would keep his promise he'd made almost three years ago. She watched as he defended Jean, or rather Phoenix, from the oncoming barrage of cure bullets and cannons.

_She wished he'd just let Jean die_.

She whimpered as she felt him press his foot on to her lower leg, and prayed silently that this would be over quickly. He picked his foot up, and for a moment she felt relief, perhaps he'd been called somewhere else for the moment because one of his own was in need of help. She didn't relax when she still felt his presence a moment later. It was then that his foot came back down on her leg, a sickening snapping noise could be heart as she felt the bones in the appendage break and shatter. She screamed in agony, the pain shooting up her leg like fire. Tears now pricked at her eyes, and she cried silently—wishing it would just end. The boy laughed at her as she dug her fingers into the ground and bit her lip to keep from making any more sounds of pain.

"Now that's what I call a scream. Let's do it again, shall we?" He moved his foot to the other leg, and she could only await the extreme pain that would be added to her bodily harm. She glanced at Logan, his face was twisted in agony having already smelt her blood as he looked from her to Jean, Jean to her.

"Logan!" she cried. She knew she was pathetic, she knew it wasn't right of her to call for him—but he had promised, damn it. And if she could've stopped the attack against her person on her own, she would—but by God, she didn't have enough strength—especially now with a broken leg.

But the Wolverine continued blocking all attacks made against her. His expression telling of his inner turmoil, and having to choose which one of the two was the most important to him. He couldn't let Jean die though, and she was the one that under the most attack, one unguarded moment, and she could be dead—and he'd never get the chance to show her that he really was the good guy. That he was the one she should marry. Rogue would have to wait. Someone else could help her—just not him.

The boy raised his foot up to shatter the other leg, and could feel wind rush up from the ground as another snap was heard, but pain never arrived with it. She looked up to find Colossus holding the boy by his head, a look of disgust on the Russian boy's face as he dropped the now dead mutant, and moved towards her. He picked her up as carefully as he could, never realizing how fragile someone who was always so strong could be. She cringed, but thanked him breathlessly as he set her near a wall that was away from the rest of the battle. Hopefully, she wouldn't die sitting here, and she'd have at least a chance of avoiding being attacked. There wasn't much else he could do, and there were far more mutants against the X-Men still to just sit with her to protect her. He'd keep an eye on her from a distance, but the battle couldn't afford to be completely without him. She hissed as the cold brick's rough surface scraped against the burnt remains of her back. She only hoped she'd black out soon, she wasn't sure if she could take much more of this pain….she didn't notice the cure casing sticking out from her shoulder like a sword. She couldn't feel the slight twinge of pain over all the rest of the injuries. She wouldn't have a clue that her mutation was slowly disappearing until she woke up.

The battle was over now, Magneto was human, and his army had been obliterated with cure darts and death. Storm flew overhead, trying to find all of the students, hoping to have them all on the Blackbird and treated before the sun rose. It was nearing three in the morning, and she'd gathered up Colossus, Kitty and Leech, Bobby who carried with him the unconscious form of Pyro, and Logan could find his own way back to the jet with the dead body of the former Jean Grey. She was still missing one…and she couldn't help but panic slightly—fearing the worst.

"Where's Rogue?" She yelled, Logan looked up—a broken expression on his face and merely shrugged. He sniffed slightly.

"I think she's on the other side of the island. I saw the Tin Man carrying her away from the fight earlier." He whispered, Storm eyed him angrily—he didn't even care about the girl that cared so much for him. She'd heard Rogue call for him, she hadn't seen what had occurred, but she knew—obviously—that whatever it was, Logan had not come to aid. The pathetic fool didn't even have enough decency to care about the girl he still had a chance to save. She flew over the island, clearing the fog she could see.

The sight scared her than she thought possible. Bodies scattered all over the island, mutant, X-Men and Brotherhood alike, as well as human soldiers that had been brave enough to stay and fight. She stared wide-eyed, trying to ignore the cold dead feeling creeping up her spine that said Rogue didn't have a chance. Not with so much death around her. Rogue had probably left this world a while ago, plus—if Piotr had to have taken her away from the battle then that meant she was heavily injured. So heavily injured, she couldn't have moved herself…

She felt her hackles rise as she saw the limp form of the small woman, at least she'd found the body. At least, she'd be able to give her a proper burial. The girl deserved that much. Rogue was leaning against the wall, her leg twisted at an odd angle and she, herself, tried to hold her side gingerly. She could only vaguely recognize that she was sitting in a small puddle of her own blood. She could only hope that it wasn't her own…Storm's hope died and was reborn, at least she was alive for the time being—if not only just. She was injured and bleeding heavily. The gash in her side was the main cause of the pool of crimson liquid, and two twisted corkscrews stuck out from her, one in her shoulder, the other in her abdomen. Her leg was definitely broken, the bone seemed shattered, and Storm hesitated to move her.

"Rogue…?" the girl's eyes had been closed, but they opened a crack to stare blearily at the face of the snow-haired woman.

"Is it over?" she asked, her voice cracked.

"Yes, we're gathering all the survivors. Bobby even has John." Rogue smiled, the quirk of her lips seemed to hold both bitterness and happiness.

"What about Je-?"

"C'mon, sweetie. Stop talking and try not to think too much, I've got to move you back to the _Blackbird_. Rogue nodded, obviously exhausted. Storm picked her up gently, trying to be very careful of her leg and her back as she flew towards the jet where the rest of the X-Men waited anxiously.

It wasn't until later, that she realized Rogue's forehead had rested against her neck, and the tell-tale pull never occurred during the short rescue flight.

Upon entering the jet, she handed the frail girl to McCoy, who took her with a small shake of his head and an expression that held sympathy for the cured mutant. He stayed in the back of the plane with her, trying to stop the bleeding…all Logan saw when he turned his head was a deathly pale Rogue, laying on one of the benches in the back of the jet with McCoy talking to Storm, shaking his head and looking awfully grim. Ororo Munroe didn't look so thrilled herself, even as she began to walk away to sit at the pilot's seat.

"Marie?!" Logan's shocked voice exclaimed. He looked at Storm, hoping she'd tell him at least if she was alive, "C'mon 'Ro, just tell me if she's alive. Tell me she's okay." The weather witch sighed in exasperation. She needed an Advil or liquor—and she didn't care which one she got at the moment, so long as she got one—and soon.

"She's in critical condition…she should be okay…we don't know the full extent of the injuries yet, but—."

"Storm!" the blue-furred doctor rushed up to the pilot's seat, where Storm was already strapped in and flipping the switches for take off. She snapped her head, looking worried.

"What? Did we leave anyone behind? Is she-?!" she gasped as she eyed what McCoy was holding. The small cartridge he held in his fist was emptied of the damnable fluid it had originally been filled with—having dispelled itself into Rogue's body the minute it had imbedded itself in her flesh.

"She's been cured." He said solemnly. Storm trembled, but remained as calm as she possibly could. Logan looked on with disbelief.

"No, no—not Rogue. She couldn't have been…" he quieted, feeling a sudden wave of guilt wash over him.

"Don't tell her anything, Hank." Storm whispered.

"But Sto-!"

"After she gets a little better…we don't need her having a fit when she's so heavily injured…" Storm trailed off as the plane took off, and Logan clapped a hand on her shoulder. She looked at him with uncertainty in her pure blue eyes.

"I'll tell her 'Ro."

"Logan, you don't have too."

"But I will." He couldn't help but feel guilty, knowing the one girl that had cared for him had called for him—practically begged for him to help her. The girl that had a chance to survive. Sub-consciously, he knew Jean would never come back. Not after what she did to Scott. Not after what she'd tried to do to the Professor. So now Marie was cured, the irreversible answer to her mutation—he could've helped her after the battle if she still had her powers he could lend his healing ability to her for a little while…

But no.

He'd been too preoccupied, too busy trying to protect the person who wanted nothing more than to destroy the very fabric of reality, all in the name of unrequited love. He'd known the kid would need help, he'd known she'd need his expertise to kick-ass. He'd admit, though, from what he'd overheard from Colossus, she'd fought like an animal—killing several of the Brotherhood on her own, as well as with the help of others. She'd taken out more than her share, her mutation itself was defensive, and yet she'd managed to make it offensive when the time came to kill in cold-blood. To kill for the first time in her short life.

She shouldn't have had to do it alone.

She was just a kid, the ripe age of nineteen. She wasn't supposed to have seen as much death, hatred, and oppression as she had. He was pulled from his musings by the loud rumbling voice of the Beast.

"She'll be alright—at least until we get to the Mansion." Hank announced. He was wiping blood off his hands and arms, specks of the life liquid having gotten caught in the tangle of fur, dying the dark blue an ugly shade of purple. Marie's scent wafted over to him. The all too familiar scent made him sick, and he halfway wanted tog o see her, and he halfway felt he should go sniff some hydrofluoric acid so that the all too sweet and comforting, _familiar_, scent would leave him be.

"How is she?" Storm asked, giving Logan a glare before returning a worried gaze back to the blue-furred doctor.

"She'll be okay, eventually. One of her broken ribs pierced her left lung; the muscle in her shoulder isn't looking too good, either. She'll need quite a bit of stitches and she won't be walking at least for a couple months." He finished his brief overview diagnosis with a sigh, "This didn't look like it was just random unfortunate attacks made against her…she was targeted. Probably Magneto's revenge against her for not cooperating in his plan on Liberty Island. This wasn't an act of war—this was pure cruelty." Hank McCoy plopped into his seat with another sigh, "She's going to be devastated when she awakens." Storm nodded silently.

"How are the other students?"

"Bobby seems to be fine, mild scratches, a couple of nasty burns and blisters, but nothing that won't heal in a few weeks. Kitty seems fine, a little jittery, but fine, same with Jimmy. Piotr is looking a bit worse for wear, but given a few weeks of rest and recovery, he should be good as new."

"How about John?"

"We have him under heavy sedation, he's probably got a minor concussion, too. He won't be waking up for a while. At least not for a day or two."

"Good. We don't need anymore trouble." She said, her attention refocusing completely on flying the jet back to the mansion safely. Logan stood up, feeling restless and guilty. He couldn't help but blame himself for what had happened. She'd called for him, and he'd heard her, perfectly—and he'd completely ignored it. He walked to the back, glancing at the students, he were now asleep. Kitty was snuggled up against Bobby, who was resting his head on top of hers, Piotr was in a seat, buckled in and resting his head back, snoring softly. Jimmy was up near the front, situated almost identical to Piotr. Pyro had be laid out on the bench where he'd once sat on the way to the FoH base near Alkali Lake not more than four feet away from the man he'd left them for. Rogue was on the opposite side, situated much like John, only a blanket covered her as she breathed in shallowly. He walked over to her still form, unable to help from noticing how awful she looked. Her face was overly pale, breathing shallow, and the smell of morphine was made him slightly dizzy.

He wouldn't ever tell the ex-government official just how much it creeped him out that he carried around an extra shot of morphine 'just in case.'

She wasn't asleep, though. Not yet. She was dancing somewhere between being awake and knocked-out cold. Her half-lidded eyes met his, and stared at him accusingly.

"Did we win?"

"Always." He said simply, stroking her hair slightly, she relaxed at his touch, closing her eyes.

Even if he could smell salt water building up behind closed eyelids.

"You didn't come." She whispered pathetically. He was silent for a moment, her head leaning into his hand. He stared thoughtfully at her even as she grew silent.

"I know, darlin'." He whispered, but she was already asleep.

Logan visited her every day, rarely straying from her bedside for the occasional Danger Room lesson. She still hadn't woken up, and there was no way to help her because even as his rough hands glided across her pale flesh—the only pull he felt was the pull in his heart. The one that told him time and time again that this was his fault.

Her breathing had gotten back to normal, still slightly shallow at times, but after Beast had fixed her ribs so they were back in their place and taken care of that hole in her lung, things had started fixing themselves slowly but surely—at normal human pace. She was under heavy sedation, even he could tell that from the overwhelming smell of morphine that constantly enveloped the room. Her back was pressed against five different towels that held an ice-pack in each to soothe the angry burns on her back. They were healing fairly well, but she wouldn't be without scars. Her leg wasn't healing as quickly or as well as they'd hoped, and her shoulder was still causing problems—having gotten infected during the battle at some point.

He couldn't help but tell himself over and over just how bad he'd fucked up this time. He could've saved her—he wouldn't deny that if he'd reacted to her call, she probably would've come away with only minor injuries. He'd even watched her lay there, dying—being attacked cruelly—and he'd done nothing. He'd even watched as the Tin Man took her away from the battle to try and limit her injuries. Colossus was officially on Logan's good side.

Storm was exasperated and angry with him, only speaking to him if necessary. And he'd tried to justify his actions by telling himself that he'd only wanted to give Jean a chance. He hadn't meant to let anyone down—he had saved the world, hadn't he? In the end, he'd been the one to kill her…

…and Rogue was injured beyond repair mostly.

"You know, staring at her doesn't do any good." McCoy's voice echoed in the medlab, ringing with slightly disapproval as well as pity.

"You gonna pick a fight, too, bub?" he growled, glaring. Beast just shook his head.

"She won't wake up until we let up on the morphine. There's no point in being down here—she's probably so deeply in her own consciousness that she can't even hear us." He explained.

"That means she can't feel the pain then—right?" the blue furred doctor nodded.

"Yes, she'll be taking a full dose of vicodin once she wakes up and we stop the morphine. He leg will cause her problems even if it does heal properly. Some bone fragments cut through the ligament—."

"She will wake up, though?" Hank stopped and stared. Logan's hand was stroking the soft flesh of her cheek, looking down at her similar to how he had once looked at Jean. McCoy smiled, just slightly.

"Yes, the only thing keeping her from awakening is the morphine so she won't feel half as much of the injured she attained."

Logan wished the Cure dart had hit someone else—he'd only once ever wanted to give his power to someone as much as he did now—and that was back at Liberty Island when she'd been half-way dead. He twirled the skunk stripe once for good measure at the memory. Sometimes he wished she'd just dye it back to its normal color. She thought it was stylish—she'd also said it reminded her of him—but he was reminded that he'd almost been too late…that he broke the promise he'd made only seconds before she was kidnapped.

Hank walked over to him, tapping him on the shoulder lightly before holding something out to him, "I believe these are yours, if I'm not mistaken." He said, dropping them in his hand before walking out of the room. It was his dogtags, the tags that hung around Marie's neck almost 24/7. He gripped them tightly. The tags represented his promise. He shook his head.

"These ain't mine, anymore, darlin'." He said quietly, wishing—despite knowing the immense pain she'd be in—that she'd wake up.

It was a total of four weeks before she awoke—groggy and very much lethargic. Hank had called Storm in to help her to her room. It had taken some extra time, especially with the way her leg had been shattered—the future looked very bleak having to use a cane at nineteen. She had questioned why her wounds hadn't healed, but dropped it as she remembered looking in to _his_ eyes and watching him choose the enemy over her.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH OF A FUCKIN' DUMBASS YOU ARE?!" a lamp crashed on the wall behind.

"Now listen, Marie, you have to understand—."

"GET THE FUCKING HELL OUT OF MY ROOM!" the clock was thrown next, crashing on the other side of the wall.

"You're just upset, darlin'."

"DAMN RIGHT, I'M UPSET! NOW GET THE HELL OUT!" a book was next, a very heavy text book. One that, upon later inspection, was found out to be a History text book (Storm would get a long lecture about giving those kind of weapons to students), and this object, with perfect aim, connected with his forehead. While it did scratch the skin a little, it hadn't done all that much damage, but had given him one hell of a headache. He had left after that, not because of the head injury, but more because of the sudden outbreak of shrill cry as she clutched her shoulder.

McCoy hadn't let him back in the room for fear of Rogue's health.

Which had given him no time to tell her what would devastate her the most.

The information that she would have to learn sooner or later, because even though everyone was still playing along…it wouldn't be before too long she would wonder what happened to the voices when she was released from her drug-induced haze. The longer he waited to tell her, he knew, the more damage it would do.

But he waited anyway—because she was already hurt enough as it is, and _damn it!_ he hadn't protected her when he should've.

It wasn't until two weeks later that he managed to sneak into the room. She was officially off the strong drugs. Still taking pain killers religiously, just not the mind-boggling strong ones. She was sitting up when he entered, a good sign considering. She was now allowed to walk on her own, with a cane and a metal cast around her leg. But she tired quickly because of it. She ignored him as he first cleared his throat to try and get her attention.

"I hear you." She'd said irritably, still not looking up from _The_ _Death of Superman _comic she'd kept with her from Mississippi.

"How ya feelin', kid?" she refused to meet his eyes.

"Shitty, and you?" she asked, her tone flat.

"Bout the same," he confessed, she raised an eyebrow, saying in itself that she didn't believe him.

"So—how'd we win?" she finally asked,

"You're still tired, kid. I'll tell ya about it later."

"So you _did _protect her until the end." She muttered bitterly.

"Now listen darlin', I know you're upset and everything, but you can't blame it all on Jean-!"

"I'm not upset anymore, Logan, you're just predictable. And yes, yes I can blame everything on her." She said, her head snapping up, daring him to argue with her.

"I like to think I keep you guessin'." He dropped the subject of Jean completely.

"Hm, yea—ain't that right sugah," she agreed, contradicting her previous statement with enthusiasm, "Most people would thought that with your pride and stubbornness, you'd keep ta your word.—but you shocked us all there, didn't ya?" her lips dripped with venom, her words filled with spite, and her expression was nothing if not bitter. He cringed inwardly—a woman's wrath (especially a Southern woman's, he couldn't help but think) really had fury that hell hath no. While her violent anger had subsided, the spitefulness had not. He left the room, promising to come by later when 'the damn doctor' would be there, just to keep her from ripping him to shred when he finally told her. Because what he had to say couldn't be prolonged any longer.

He walked down the hall, feeling like an old man, wishing he had the ability to go back in time and fix things. He hadn't wanted Marie to get hurt, not like that, not as much as she had, _that _had _never_ been his intention.

But the road to hell is always paved with good intentions, and while he wasn't a religious man, he did believe in retribution. And he couldn't help but think that perhaps this was retribution for killing so many people in the past, maybe also for how many one-night stands he'd had in the past—especially those couple of whores that he'd skipped out on paying—leaving before they had the chance to collect. Perhaps this was his punishment, seeing the one thing that he didn't ever think he could lose (the girl who had started this whole 'being civilized and nice' phase he'd been going through for the past three years) would start to hate him.

He pulled out a beer and plopped into the kitchen seat, he had about an hour until McCoy and him would break the news to Rogue.

"So you're going to tell her, tonight?" the Kenyan woman sat before him, a look of irritation and disgust on her face as she looked him over one before settling on examining the polished wood of the table.

"Yeah, McCoy's making sure she's awake—lucid." He said.

"Maybe you should have her drugged before you tell her. Might soften the blow." She said, it was a piece of advice, but her tone made it almost sound like an indirect insult.

"Thought about it, but she'd probably forget. And I don't wanna have to break the news to the kid more than once."

"Hm." She scoffed, and got up, the legs of the chair scraping ever so slightly against the linoleum of the floor, "It's always about you, Logan." She muttered under her breath as she walked out.

He'd pretend he hadn't heard her.

The Canadian looked once more at his watch before sighing, taking one last swig of his drink, and getting up. It was time to get this over with.

As he walked down the hall, the one that seemed to stretch on endlessly ahead of him but took him to his destination quicker than he'd have liked on this one special occasion, he wondered if they'd done this right. Maybe they should have told her when she'd first woken up, maybe they shouldn't tell her at all, maybe they could make her think that she just suddenly had gained control—but she they didn't know how to make her reactivate it. Maybe they could let her figure it out—it would take her a couple of years, probably, since she'd become so careful, accidental touches didn't happen often at all anymore. Maybe…maybe he shouldn't be the one telling her. Maybe he should've let Storm tell her. Or just leave up to Hank.

But it was too late now. Because he was outside of her door, knocking lightly—hoping that maybe McCoy wouldn't hear him.

"Come in, Logan." Damn.

It wasn't like he had any obligation to the kid. It hadn't really been his fault that she'd gotten hurt—she should've been more alert, more aware of her surroundings. Not technically his fault.

"Rogue, I—." she was refusing to look at him, "Look at me, Rogue." He said quietly, sitting on the edge of her bed as he had done so many times before to the shoulder she could cry on when something went horribly awry in her life. She didn't move. He knew she wouldn't, "Rogue, do you remember the battle very well?"

"Transparently." And he could tell which part of the battle she was referring too.

"You were shot with the cure." There he'd said it, and the gasp told him she hadn't noticed that little detail of the battle, "Your powers don't work anymore, Rogue." He said quietly, still looking at her. Time seemed to stop for a little while as Hank let out the breath he'd been holding, and Rogue just sat there almost shaking, he reached a hand towards, "Listen—Marie."

"My name is Rogue. _Rogue, damn it!_" she said, her voice was rough, and as his hand reached the bare flesh of her shoulder, she flinched back, moving smoothly away from the offending appendage.

"Rogue, it's okay, though. Now you don't have to worry about it anymore, you didn't have to make the choice." Her head snapped up, glaring at him with unshed tears.

"_I KNOW I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE! THAT'S THE PROBLEM, DUMBASS!_" and she slapped him, the tears finally cascading down her face. McCoy still hadn't moved, and Logan was shocked from the slap, he hadn't either. She was still shaking, silently sobbing at her own loss.

Because she knew through all technicalities…Rogue didn't exist anymore. (But she wished with all her heart that she still did).

And Logan couldn't find anything to say that would make anything better. And God help him he was attached to this swamp rat that had hitchhiked in his truck, and he'd let her down. He'd killed the woman he loved, he'd killed the soul of the girl that loved him, and perhaps he really was destined for Hell, because if there was such a place (and he believed there was) then he was there. Had been for awhile.

He couldn't stay here—not with Marie reminding him everyday that he'd failed another person. Remembering that he had a Home now, that he had people that cared for him—maybe not so much anymore—but he'd had it…and he'd been the one to lose it. Not with so many emotions that he didn't know what to do with, and _damn it! he couldn't figure out where to go from here. Emotions weren't his strong point, never have been—how was he supposed to move past this?! _He didn't know.

So he did the only thing he knew he couldn't screw up, the one think he _knew _how to do, the one thing he seemed to be so very good at…

He left.

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A/N: So what'd ya think? Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: To answer so questions that may or may not have been addressed in recent chapters.**

**Rogue is not with Bobby. Bobby is with Kitty. We're going with the whole idea that they broke up because of his cheating on Rogue with Kitty. They are not on speaking terms, and he will not play any sort of main role in this story. I dislike him.**

**Professor Xavier is still alive. Jean is not. Scott is not. Magneto is human. The Brotherhood is currently in shambles. I think that's about it. **

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Fidem Fallere

**By Miranda Panda-chan**

**:Part II:**

"_So what kind of a name is Rogue?"_

"_What kind of a name is Wolverine?"_

"_My name is Logan."_

"_Marie."_

_Rogue—_

_You know I ain't good with words._

_You know I'm a shitty friend._

_I'm an even shittier person._

_I hope you get better soon._

_And I'm sorry I broke my promise._

_--Logan _

She'd stared at the dumb piece of paper with the hardly legible scrawl of black ink for over three hours. She hadn't said a word, not to Storm, not to Beast—whom she'd grown to appreciate as of late. Beast was the one that told Storm to bring the note, after seeing her blank and apathetic expression after he'd finished saving her life. No one had known of what she'd done except for the furry blue doctor in the corner that looked a thousand years older than he really was, no one had known she'd tried to take her life, had managed to gnaw and scratch through the soft flesh of wrists and arms, everywhere she could reach, and had (purposefully? accidentally? she didn't know anymore…) sliced through her own veins because she couldn't stand the feel of her own skin anymore—the coppery flavor was still trapped in her mouth (not even a good mouthful of Listerine had been able to take away the taste of it). No, no one had seen her do the act, he'd been the only one to know—had been the only one that had taken it upon himself to make sure she lived. The pain in his eyes told of a harsh wisdom, a knowledge that came only with seeing people like her. Like the battles of life had taken everything out of him as he stared at her whom had taken the brunt of the pain and loss.

_Pity. _Her mind spat. _It's just pity. _And she couldn't help but agree, but only a little. Because she'd also come across a strange epiphany—one that had the possibility to be both a wonderful new door for her as well as a gruesome truth.

She was normal now. She was a human by all rights, technically. No one would be able to know, especially with a new name as had been suggested by the Professor, who had come in not to long ago to tell her that he'd been back within the hour after dinner. She'd been playing with the idea since Logan had told her of the true horrors of her injury. The invisible injury—the one that seemed to hurt her the most.

"So, you're still awake, Rogue." She flinched, although she didn't think she could keep it together if she'd been called Marie…she still knew that, in all truth, she was lying to herself when she said her name was Rogue.

Rogue was dead, now, after all.

Marie'd been the one to survive, damn it all.

She nodded, ignoring the feeling that he was listening to her every thought. He stared at her for awhile, and his gaze seemed to chastise her more than words could have. His gaze told her of his disappointment at her apparent lack of self-control and immaturity.

She couldn't help but silently scoff; she'd already known she was a failure.

"Professor, I came up with something that might make me better." He raised his eyebrows in question, but didn't say anything, "I know I've done a really stupid thing." She paused, hesitating—maybe this wasn't the best idea to say aloud currently.

"I think we all can agree on that, yes." He said, urging her on.

"Well…I think…I wanna leave." There, she'd said it. Blunt and as a painfully clear as she could've possibly said it. Moments of silence past, the Professor searching in her eyes for something, before finally, McCoy broke it.

"Rogue, you can't possibly think that we're going to let you go out on your own after--."

"Fine. But not right away. Logan has left, obviously." He nodded towards the letter she still held in her hands.

"But Charles-!" Beast started, but the Professor only raised up his hand to silence any further objections. He nodded in resignation, and so Charles continued.

"So for now, let's not rush things. I do want you to start attending the sessions that first had when you came here." Ah, _those _sessions. The ones where he played councilor and she played the psychotic patient, the sessions that had originally been used to hopefully find a way to help her gain control over her mutation—they would now be put to a more regular use.

To make sure that she was mentally stable.

"_And to perhaps see if the cure can be reversed."_ His voice added quietly. So he _had _been snooping around. She knew it!

"Fine." She'd said. She'd go through whatever she would have to so she could leave this place that now, held more pain for her than happiness.

**:Part III:**

"…_He seems to generally want to help you. And that's a rare thing for us. So whatdaya say? Give these geeks one more shot?"_

**::Two Years Later::**

Rogue was still having her Saturday sessions with the Professor, although as of late, they were becoming increasingly shorter due to his assurance that they were running out of things to talk about (she didn't like to think about how the cure couldn't be reversed and she was stuck feeling this empty for the rest of her life). They'd already gone over in great detail how she'd start her new life. They'd gone over her feelings for Logan, and Logan's actions and what they indicated for her. They'd even gone over her favorite foods and TV shows! She was completely open, she knew it had been pointless to try and hide anything from the Professor. She considered him a close friend, not just a mentor and instructor, but something of a father-figure. Someone she could trust…

She'd only had one other person that she'd felt she could trust with everything. And he'd shown her just how easily that much trust in a person could be thrown away, trampled on, eaten, vomited back up, then run over by a semi.

She'd leave in another month, the plane ticket had been bought, the house that she'd gotten fairly cheap because of the realtor's connections with the Professor (mutants know people, ya know?) had been inspected and bought, she'd already been promised a job as the secretary of some business corporation, and she'd already gotten a whole new birth certificate. She would live as Anna Marie, but she'd already decided to go by Marie.

Everything was going perfect. Everything was going according to plan. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Don't think about it. In the words of Yoda, "Do or do not, there is no try." She wouldn't go back on this. She wouldn't--- her attention was suddenly taken away from her mental pep talk because of someone was walking in, she could see the front doors from her new favorite spot on the second floor, her legs hanging over the edge of the balcony that looked on the entrance of the school on the first floor. The black hair in two all too familiar spikes on either side of his head, the smell of cigar smoke, the ratty old leather jacket, and the permanent scowl--

"Logan?!" Oh hell.

And before he could utter a word of surprise, she ran.

She was pacing, she'd admit that. She was nervous, twitchy, anxious to get away—getting the itchy intolerable feeling of wanting to shed her skin that she was no longer comfortable in. She took a deep breath in, Storm was watching her warily (because she was a teacher now, and she hung out with the other teachers. Youth had been left behind long ago, in a time that was without Magneto and without the Cure, most definitely), sitting on her bed and following her with ice blue eyes.

"Why is he here, Storm? I don't get it…he normally leaves for _at least _three years at a time. He left in the first place…why did he come back? Why does he always come back?!" She was panicking, and on the verge of hyperventilation.

"Don't worry, Rogue. You'll be leaving in a matter of weeks. He can't cause you too much damage, just avoid him—it's not all that hard, he's sort of an enigma around here anyway." She said, her voice calming. Rogue plopped on the end of the bed, clenching the material of her sleeves in her fists and biting her lip.

"Is there any way we can move up the date? I don't think I can handle being around him…"

"He might not even bring it up, Rogue. You know that."

"I realize that, but the betrayal is still there, and I haven't forgiven him yet." She whispered, "If he doesn't bring it up that'll almost make it ten times worse—because then I'll never even know if he feels guilty about it. I'll be thinking to myself: could he really have forgotten what he inadvertently did to me?" she was tired, she mentally noted to herself. She needed sleep. A lot of sleep—they weren't going to have classes for the next week because of (a very late) spring break. Most students were still at the school, being either runaways or castaways—only a few had gone home without worrying about hiding what they were.

"Rogue, you're tired. It's getting late…just don't think about it. I'm sure he won't be as much of a terror as you think he'll be. He's an asshole, but he wouldn't_ try_ to make you miserable."

"Yeah…well, he doesn't really have to try, now does he?…He just does." She whispered, but still Rogue could only hope she was right as she closed the door, the soft clicking noise telling her it had locked behind the weather witch. The darkness was a welcome as she turned off her lamp, snuggling into her pillows—still dressed, only lacking shoes and jewelry. She was too tired to bother with changing clothes.

Two weeks went by without incidence, Rogue kept to the deserted hallways, and made sure to overdose on the perfume and spray the entire hallway—just for the extra precaution. She wasn't taking any chances. She got food at odd hours of the night and morning, and she left class and went through the untraveled route to her room. Two weeks, and no sign of Logan. Two weeks, and no problems—no emotional breakdowns, no more uncomfortable twitch and no more feeling uncomfortable in her own skin (which happened even without him there—her skin would seem to shrink itself and feel itchy, like a new sweater—uncomfortable and foreign and not her own). Storm had commented on her amazing ninja skills several times in the comfort of Rogue's classroom, where she taught, of all things, Algebra.

But that's precisely where her happy little world began to crash around her.

It was Monday of week three, and Rogue was gathering her papers. When the door to her classroom opened, it was quiet—the soft creaking noise not near as loud as it normally was, and she wondered why Storm would try and be so quiet.

"Hey," she said, expecting an immediate reply from the older woman, when no response came, she turned around.

Where was Angel when you need him to fly you out of a window?

"Oh," she breathed, startled and uncomfortable, "I thought Storm…err…yea." She stumbled over her words. He stared at her, an uncomfortable expression on his face. He looked guilty.

_Good._ And Rogue couldn't help but feel a little bit smug. Not that she would show it. No, not to him.

"Just wanted to see what you been up too, kid." He said, his voice still rough, his eyes still wild and his entire being just screamed rugged.

"I've been teachin'. Somebody's gotta teach these kids math, and I seem to be the only one with enough patience to do so." She couldn't help but laugh at little, she had little to no patience at all. Yet, in all honesty, the statement had been the truth—she had no patience at all and yet she had more patience than any of the rest of them had—especially when it involved math, "What've you been up too?"

"Nothin' much. Went back to cage fightin' for awhile, earned a little money here and there—I was getting kinda slim on cash, ya know?" he said gruffly, walking over to her, his boots, although large, didn't make a sound on the tile floor.

"Ah…" she said, the conversation was awkward, she didn't want to talk to him. Not after all he'd done. Not after everything that had happened. She was already feeling the urge to run her nails against her flesh to try and loosen what was now uncomfortable—her own skin. She turned only to find herself nose to nose with him—well, almost. He was still about a foot taller than her. The silence killed her as her eyes locked with his—the crushing weight of everything making her throat close and her mind shut down. Yet her mouth, damn it all, managed to move on its own accord.

"I got your note." He backed up, glancing down and nodding quickly.

"I figured ya did, it ain't like Chuck to not keep promises."

"You didn't have to leave."

"Yeah, I did—don't kid yourself, Rogue. You know I can't stay in one place for very long." He ruffled her hair, and she couldn't help but feel slightly patronized—even as the warm feeling flooded up from her toes to her cheeks.

"It's Marie, now." She said softly, she'd gotten over her own self-denial in her Saturday sessions with the Professor. Rogue was dead. Had been since Alcatraz. She didn't lie to herself anymore. She had accepted herself as who she was, is—Marie. Marie D'Ancanto. The cowardly Mississippi southern belle that never knew when to quit. But once she left, she'd change all that. She would.

"Oh." He said, he ran his hand through his hair, "Well, I'll be seein' ya, kid. I got stuff to do. Danger Room training an' all that." He said, walking out just as Storm walked in. She stared at Rogue—waiting for a breakdown, waiting for her to try and tear her skin off again because that's how she seemed to respond to a lot of things. Instead, Rogue just stood there, a little shaken.

_She could never step in the Danger Room again. _

_She was hardly allowed in the lower levels anymore at all. _

_She wasn't even really an X-Man anymore._

_But he was._

And so she cried, letting Storm hold her and try to soothe her like a mother would. Because that's what she had become, a mother figure. Someone who she could talk to, a friend as well as family.

Storm could only wonder what Logan had said to upset her so much.

**:Part IV:**

"_I don't want you to go."_

"_I'll be back for these."_

From that day on, Rogue saw him more in the mansion than ever. Even in the deserted hallways, and unused routes. Three more days was all she had to wait. Just three. No more, but no less either. 72 hours. 4320 minutes. And time never seemed to flow as slow as it did while waiting for those hours to pass. Storm had already told the students that Jubes would be their teacher from now on. It was laughable really, her fashion-obsessed friend had failed math during her own highschool career.

Everything was prepared for her departure. Her room was clean, her stuff was packed, she had replacements for all the leadership roles she'd been in charge of, and the secret still hadn't leaked to Logan.

Life was as good as it could be with her situation. So good, in fact, that she'd agreed to eat dinner with the rest of the house (more specifically, at the Teachers' Table, which still made her slightly giddy) that night.

She was on an errand for Storm, in fact, when a certain Canadian started to rain on her parade.

"Marie!" his voice was rough—rougher than normal. He was growling and anger was evident on his face.

What had she done now?

Nothing, to her knowledge.

So she turned slowly, bringing herself to a halt—ignoring the voice in her head telling her to run (although she knew if she had he would've caught up with her in a matter of minutes in a most unpleasant fashion) and ignoring the other voice that said to ignore Logan and continue on with her errand (Storm always had hated lateness).

"What?" she shouted the irritated reply back—honestly, this man had a lot of nerve. He was only a few steps away before something in her mind clicked—he knew something about her that made him furious—and so far only a few things had made him truly angry. The list currently consisted of when something (mostly either herself or Jean) was hurt by someone else (mostly from the Brotherhood or the government). SO why would he be mad at her if she couldn't have hurt Jean and why in the would she hurt herself--?

"Oh shit," Panic ran through her, but even as she turned to run (did he really need proof? Wasn't her running away enough proof to prove whatever story he'd been told by—who had let that slip? Only two people knew the whole story…). He grabbed her wrist as she turned to run, and she knew if she tried to pull her arm away she'd only end up pulling it out of the socket.

Logan stared at her with hard eyes. His gaze frightened her, not from terror, but something else.

He'd never meant to hurt her.

_That still didn't mean he hadn't._

Anger shined through…along with something to the effect of sadness—guilt maybe? (But what did he have to be guilty about? He hadn't caused her to do _that_). He grabbed her hand and lifted up the sleeve that covered her right arm and hand.

"What'd you do to yourself, Rogue?" he stared, shocked and angry at the jagged reddish pink zigzags, like ripped paper, all over her flesh. She could still taste the coppery substance that had flooded her mouth and the space beneath her fingernails—the same substance that rushed through her veins at the very moment—the same thing that kept her alive. She tried to yank it away (gingerly, she'd need that hand later on to slap him with, she knew) and he only growled menacingly as he examined in horror at her moment of insanity.

"Leggo!" she yelled, trying to pull away once more, he raised his eyes to look at her, "What the fuck are you trying to pull, Logan?" she hissed.

"I heard," and all the anger in him died almost completely as she looked back at him defiantly, "I-."

"I'm pretty sure I know what you heard," She growled back, and as his grip loosened, in shock or horror, yanked her hand away.

"They said that after I left—that you tried to-."

"Don't flatter yourself, Logan—it wasn't because of you," she spat, "It had nothing to do with you at all."

"Then what did it have to do with, Marie?" he demanded.

"My skin—it wasn't mine--…I couldn't stand the feel of it so I made a way to escape it. My aim wasn't to kill myself, it was to get rid of feeling like a foreigner in my own flesh. But I'm now. Nothing like that has or will ever happen again."

"Marie…"

"I'm no some helpless kid you need to feel sorry for, Logan. I can take care of myself."

"You did it right after my letter," he whispered, "Why would you do it—why would you even try to take another person I love away from me?!" And the slap she'd been holding in came flying out, the skin-on-skin impact echoing in the empty hallway. Tears were in her eyes, shining over the anger pouring out. He stood there, shocked.

"Don't you dare act like you care so much, Logan—especially when we both know you don't." her voice was low, a hoarse and cracked whisper holding more hostility then if she had just yelled outright.

"Marie, I-."

"Save it, Logan. I've got stuff to do—unlike you, I can't just shirk my responsibilities to go joyriding in Canada—I've got work to do." And with that she turned away, his hand slipping off her should as she expanded the distance between them.

"Damn," he growled, finding a cigar and lighting it. He watched as she walked further and further down the hall until she finally turned the corner—heading for the elevator, he assumed. He cursed once more, kicking his foot against the floor before turning on his heels and heading the opposite direction.

He growled softly in the dark hallway; he really needed a drink.

He'd heard her anger at him and the former head of Mutant Relations from his office, even if it was in her (and now his) head. She was in the gym, the normal one, used for everyday purposes. She was just happened to be making use of a punching bag and the rubber upper torso and head of a dummy. She was beating the shit out of both.

They walked in slowly (or in the Professor's case, rather, wheeled) and watched her carefully.

But she noticed them almost immediately.

"You told him?!" she was angry, downright furious, "What right did you have to tell him?! It was a moment of temporary insanity—I haven't even thought about doing something like that again. You should know that!" she was yelling and pacing (she seemed to be doing a lot of that as of late).

"He had a right to know, Marie."

"Why? It wasn't his fault that I…did that." She said, refusing to give a name to the action.

"You would've handled it better if he hadn't just up and left." Beast added in.

"You don't know that! Just because you're telepathic doesn't mean you can see the future of what _could have _happened." She growled at the Professor, another person whom she had trusted—who had ratted her out—just like always, before turning back on her heel to go back to her original cause of being at her current location.

"You can know that I did not expect him to react like that, and for that I am sorry."

"You should've known. You could've warned me you were gonna tell him!" she kicked the punching bag, causing it to bust finally, achieving her goal for the night. Sand poured out of it in a waterfall. Just because she didn't have power didn't mean she was completely helpless. She sat sank to the floor, exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally.

"I can't stay here for much longer," she whispered hoarsely, her hair falling in her face.

"It's only one more day." She shrugged the comforting hand off he bare shoulder. The touch of flesh on flesh unnerving her further—there'd always been fabric in-between. Always.

"I'll be up in my room."

"Storm will expect to see you at dinner—you told her you would be."

"Tell her I can't. I'm not as prepared to face him as I though—especially not after today."

"Come down to dinner, Marie—don't cut us off right before you leave," Hank pleaded.

"Why not? I'll make leaving that much easier." They had nothing to say to that, and so she stood up and brushed herself off—leaving the two X-Men to wallow in guilt.

Rogue had, in fact, gone to her room for several hours. A very persistent telepath and a whiny blue doctor weren't enough to persuade her to come out. The only think that managed to get her out was the idea that Storm would ask why she wasn't at dinner, and the only option they had left was the truth. The _whole _truth. And she didn't even know why it mattered so much anymore, but it did. And damn it, she'd rather be shot before someone else found out. Damn snitches…

So there she sat, next to Storm and Beast, quietly eating her salad and occasionally cutting up a small bit of her steak.

And nothing but silence ensued.

Logan sat opposite Beast, which was diagonal to her left, and she wanted nothing more than to kick him under the table like the immature kid he thought she was.

And then conversation began, and she couldn't help but miss the silence that was now shattered. Logan refused to make eye contact or even ask her to pass the damn salt, while the Professor and Hank tried to make polite conversation with her.

And she was getting fed up with this kind of shit….

She stood up, slamming her hands against the table top.

"Rogue?" Storm was the only one that still called her that, and it still made her twitch just a little.

"I need some air." She said curtly, putting her dishes (still filled with food) in the trash and marching out of the kitchen. They all flinched as the door slammed.

"I do believe dinner has been spoiled for the night," Hank said, taking a bite of mashed potatoes. The rest could only in agreement, even as Logan stood up from his seat and headed out the door.

Rogue was trying to keep it together. She pulled out the box of cigarettes that she'd promised herself she wouldn't use unless absolutely necessary (she wouldn't get another one in God only knew how long). Picking one out she shoved it back into her pocket, rummaging around to find the old Zippo with the shark painted on it that brought back far too memories that were filled with more happiness than she figured she'd ever get again. She leaned against one of the columns, feeling like she wanted to melt into a puddle of goo because of how dumb she'd just been. Really? What was she—five? Throwing a tantrum like that and walking out on people who hadn't meant any harm—could she get more immature? She shook her head, regretting just a little her previous actions now that she had time to think and fire on her tongue, the scratchy smoke swelling in the confines of her lungs—she felt semi-invincible.

Then the door opened and the sound of cowboy boots hitting the wooden porch gave away who it was, and all the good feelings left in a heartbeat.

"What?" she asked irritably, taking a drag from her cigarette.

"Didn't know you smoked." He said, shrugging, "Didn't know you were old enough, too."

"Tch, I've been old enough too for about a year. But I been doin' this for a lot longer than that," She said simply, shrugging off his questioning gaze, "You would know that if you'd ever stick around long enough to find out the simple facts about others." She said, flicking the end to make the ashes fall off to the ground. He watched them fall, ignoring the jab.

"Why?"

"Hm? This?" she said breathing out a puff a smoke, he nodded slowly, "I started this after Johnny left us. It reminded me of the way he smelled, and it made it seem like he was still here." She smiled ruefully, remembering the naivety of her youth—when things were all too simple, "Now I guess it's just a habit, I like to think that it's a memory of the real Johnny, the one that got possessed by the fire. Not Pyro." She said softly. There was silence for a long moment as she looked up into the sky to see the clouds darkening overhead. It wasn't until she felt the first raindrop hit her forehead that she finally conceded and stamped out her nicotine refresher. She moved to sit on one of the steps, not minding the rain in the slightest.

But she could tell the man behind her was getting anxious with the silence. Especially since she hadn't said anything.

So he said the first thing that came to mind…

"Ya know, Jeannie and me used to stand out here in the rain when One Eye was out doing something, just stand her-." (Which perhaps hadn't been the best idea, in retrospect).

"Stop it, Logan." She said, more like growled, "Don't bring her up."

"I don't know why you didn't like her, kid. She never did anything to ya-." He started in on her defense…just like Alcatraz…keeping her safe from the rest of the world. He really didn't know when to just quit talking, did he?

"She's ruined my life." Her voice was far too even and flat. She wasn't looking at him while she said it, either, just staring at the open field in front them. The pathway that led to the exit as well as the gardens, and the lake…and the fountain…but she wouldn't look at him until she finished and he'd made a sound that started like an accusation or a defense or an argument of some sort. But it died the moment he met her accusing eyes. And it seemed he remembered.

"Now kid, you can't blame my actions on Jeannie-."

"Stop calling her that, damn it! Call her that when I'm not around." She yelled, turning back around to the scenery, walking a little ways forward.

"Still, kid, you can't blame my actions on," he had paused, as if catching himself, "her, my actions were my own."

"She made you fall in love with her." She said, her voice still flat, quiet, and angry, "And because of that _love_ you protected her at Alcatraz, and because you protected her you forgot all about your promise. A promise that I've remembered, and a promise that I thought you would keep because you've kept all your other promises—haven't you, Logan? You had to choose between me and her that day. You had to choose between saving my life or saving hers—even though, and don't even think I don't know you knew, that she would have to die. That that would be the only way to save her."

"Rogue…I…you were young, kid. You didn't know anything about love when you first met me. Hell, we didn't know each other at all. You were just a dumb kid."

"Just a dumb kid, huh?" and he had the sudden feeling that perhaps he'd said something that he shouldn't have again, and he couldn't help but feel like he was driving stakes through her heart with each word he said in her defense, "_Just a dumb kid_. That's rich." She laughed a little, smiling ruefully. "If I was so dumb, Logan, why did you bother comin' after me that day on the train?"

"Rogue, that's not what I meant-."

"_Answer_ _the damn question, Logan!_" she turned around, her wet hair flying around her and then landing with a _splat_ against her clothes.

"I came after you because I was worried._ You were just a dumb kid. _You couldn't protect yourself against Magneto, even I could tell that with the way Chuck was talking about him." He said, his voice gruff.

"That's it." she shook her head, still smiling like she'd have rather been shot than be here with him, "_That's it_. You really are predictable, Logan. You really are. And here…ya know, you're just infuriating. I hate almost hating you—I could. I could hate you so easily and yet it's so damn hard." She said, turning around from him and pacing, the rain still pounding against her small form, "I try, I try, and I try. But no! You make it so damn easy and yet it's so damn hard. And it's all your fault! And I can't…" she made a frustrated noise.

"Listen, Rogue…I loved her. You…you're a kid, Rogue." As if he thought that point alone was reason enough.

"No I'm not! Not anymore, Logan! I've seen war, blood, death, and betrayal. Seen and been a part of all of it. I'm not some dumb kid, I'm not just something to protect anymore. I've been shot at, I been Cured by force. I've made decisions that a nineteen year old in New York shouldn't have to make." She continued on with her rant, perhaps it was the slight buzz she had from the few glasses of Scotch she'd had, but what it was that was driving her to say things she'd even rarely thought out loud was cutting off soon, "I've loved you since I first saw you in that bar at Laughlin City, or maybe not loved you then, but I felt some sort of attraction—otherwise I would never have even got into that camper of yours. You knew I liked you, I knew after you touched me again, _she _had told you that I was_ 'rather taken with you_.' The nerve of some people! URGH! You knew and yet you didn't even care—you didn't think the slightest of me. Ever, did you?" she asked, pointing a finger at him, up in his face, eyes flashing as the epiphany settled over her, the conviction strengthening her as he faltered in his gaze, "I knew it!" she jumped right back into her rant.

Logan could only stare at her; she was fighting back tears as she continued, the only way he could tell was by the bright red that rimmed her eyes. He didn't know how to respond. He had loved her. He had, but Rogue was a whole new world (and it kinda resembled the Aladdin sort of way), a whole new spectrum, with new galaxies and stars. And she was all of it combined.

She was too much for him, and he knew that. Far too well than he could ever want too. He didn't deserve her. He knew that. She was far too good for him, because he'd fucked up too many times—he'd only wanted to go back like how it used to be. Like when she was just seventeen, a lonely little girl trapped in war of betrayal and death and hate. He'd wanted to protect her, he wanted to do so much more—but he knew he couldn't. He didn't have much when it came to morals. But she was the good thing that happened. She cared. He knew that. She'd cared and had wormed her way into his heart since she shouted her warning and asked later if it hurt.

"_Does it hurt when they come out?" eyeing his knuckles, or rather the spaces in-between._

"_Every time." _

No one else had bothered to ask. His attention returned to her, she was back up in his face now. Tears obvious, he could smell the salt, hair plastered to her head, the white stripes taking on a dull gray color, the brown turning a murky, slick black, her over-sized clothes clung to her small frame, making her look twice as frail as she would've without the rain. His eyes widened as he took in her words.

"You've got to choose Logan—me or a memory?! I've been second place to her since we ever showed up here—but she's dead, Logan!!! She's not here anymore—you killed her, yourself!" and she knew she'd struck below the belt with that attack the moment she saw him flinch and his eyes reflected the pain in his heart, but it was the truth, and she wasn't gonna stop now, "She asked you to take her life because the woman you _loved_," she spat the word like an expletive, "didn't have control over her own body or mutation anymore. Why can't you let her go? Why? Is it because I'm too young, too naïve? Is it my mutation? Do I disgust you, too, Logan—is that it?" and she could feel the tears rushing down because—what if he did find her disgusting? But he could only stayed dumbfoundedly at her, eyes filled with paid. The Wolverine looked defeated, broken, and finally he shook his head slowly.

"It's not any of that, Marie…"

"Then what is it—what makes her so goddamned special that every male in the whole goddamned place is drooling over her—everyone here is moping because of her and yet she tried to kill us all—how does she still have so much control over you even though she's _**dead**_!?" she was panting from the output of energy she'd released in those last few statements. The rushing release of raw emotion flowing out of her was zapping her confidence away slowly but surely…

"Never mind…" she said, wiping away rebellious tears, "just forget it. Forget we ever had this meeting. I—I…"she chuckled, all the conviction dying as the scared little who just wanted _someone _to love her appeared, "I don't know what I thought I could accomplish with that…I just thought that—hell, I don't what I thought. Sorry, I wasted your time."

"Marie, it's not—"

"Stop, Logan, really. Just stop. I'm leaving tomorrow, maybe that's where this is all coming from."

"You're leaving?" she nodded, "Just like that?" he asked in disbelief.

"The Professor's making sure I can support myself, Storm's been helping me, too."

"You been planning this for awhile?"

"You could say that…ever since the whole cure-thing I've…well, I don't feel like I shouldn't be here."

"But you didn't choose to get it, Marie."

"I know, but I still wanted it. I could just taste freedom only a needle away. You don't know how bad I wanted to be rid of those stupid gloves. And that's…that's unacceptable, especially as an X-Man. I don't belong here—not with people who are ridiculously supportive and nice—the very people I wanted to turn my back on when I stepped into that clinic. I'm not a mutant anymore, Logan—I'm just a gray area. "

"Rogue…" she shook her head, her eyes holding a sad note to them.

"I've already made up my mind, Logan. You didn't stop me from getting the cure…you're not gonna stop me from leavin' either. You can't…not anymore. I'm a big girl…capable of making my own decisions—I'm following my instincts." She said, finally looking him in the eye. Her green eyes told of pain and wisdom that a nineteen year old girl from Mississippi shouldn't have yet. She turned and walked back down the steps of the Mansion, plopping down on the second to bottom step and looking more defeated than when he'd found her at the beginning of the damn conversation. He just stood there under the balcony of the second floor, watching her stature shrink with every second as she curled into herself—the distance between them making her untouchable was almost tangible. There were unanswered questions, answers that didn't make either of them happy but were the only truth either could come up with. She was just sitting there in all truth, being pelted by the rain, staring blankly out into the darkness.

"Could you leave me alone for a couple minutes?" her voice broke and cracked a little, it sounded as if she was choking, "I wanna be by myself for a little while," she turned, giving him a horrendously fake and forced smile, even with the tear tracks mixing with the rain, "That's the reason why I came out here in the first place." She laughed a little. He nodded, understanding his presence was keeping her from having the emotional breakdown she needed. She gave him a broken, but real, smile before turning back around and waiting for the tell-tale sound of the opening and closing of the door with a soft click. She didn't even hear him walk up behind her as he placed his bulky leather jacket over her head and around her shoulders to protect her from the cold rain. She looked behind, startled and letting out a gasp of shock as she watched him walk back inside without a word, closing the door quietly behind him. She bit her lip, but the emotional build up and turmoil overflowed without her permission, and she clutched at the jacket, pulling it tighter around her as if to keep herself from breaking into a million pieces. She sobbed, crying endlessly as her heart tore itself up and her brain yelled at her for being so stupid in believing that she'd had a chance—that she could ever beat Jean Grey, even if she was dead. Her body was shaking, from the cold or from the sobs she didn't know—mayhaps both. She couldn't have known that the Wolverine was just on the other side of the door, listening to her every single cry.

And with each tear, he could feel her cries cutting through him--adamantium and all—and finally through his heart.

Storm had noticed the encounter and had watched with a sigh and an empathetic heart. She knew exactly the pain of wanting to be loved and being denied. She couldn't help but ease the rain up slightly—getting sick would probably not make Rogue any happier. Logan's expression was one of a broken man. Rogue's was one of defeat.

"I can smell you, 'Ro." The gruff male voice held a sadness to it that tugged at her heart. But that wouldn't stop her from tearing into him.

"She loved you, ya know?" she stepped out from behind the corner, walking into the kitchen, and sitting across from him. He had a beer in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.

"I know."

"Logan—even if you don't love her…she has a point—Jean _is _dead." Logan gripped the bottle a little tighter and took a drink before letting it just sit on the table, "I realize you love her, Logan, but it's been two years—."

"It's not about Jean, 'Ro."

"Then what _is __**it**_about, Logan?! Marie's a strong, young woman, capable of making her own choices--"

"Ya know…I told her that…back when she leavin' to get the cure in the first place. I told her to follow her instincts and make her own choices. She's young, but she's got enough smarts to get her through life…" he said, not looking at her.

"Then what's the problem—she wants to live her life with you. She's made her choice."

"That's precisely why I can't. She's got her whole life in front of her…she's too good for the likes of me, 'Ro. She needs a nice young man, who'll settle down her—raise a couple brats—the whole works. She's normal; I don't want to be the one that keeps her tied down to us freaks." Storm looked at him with his last statement, but he just shot it back down with a look of his own, "You know it's true, Storm. She wanted to get the cure…she's wanted to be normal since her mutation manifested. She don't need any of us keeping her back from living a happy normal life with a normal house, job, and family."

"But Logan, she doesn't care about any of that…she wants you. Are you saying you wouldn't provide for her and be a caring husband and father to her children? Are you saying--?"

"No, no, no. I'm not sayin' any of that. I'd do anything for her—even you know that. I've never have let her in my camper back in Laughlin if I didn't at least care about her."

"Then I don't see the problem."

"The problem is that I've fucked up too many times for me to be worth her time. She deserves someone better--."

"Logan, you said yourself she can make her own choices, and she chooses you. You can deny it all you want—but you're the best for her."

"She doesn't have any other options yet. The minute she gets to wherever you guys have set her up, she'll find a nice human boy to be with." In his mind's eye, he could picture it. Marie and her happy normal family. No worries about the Brotherhood, or mutants. No fighting, nothing. Just happiness. He growled a little at the image. He could also see the fickleness of the young man, and how he'd leave her alone with kids, debt, and a broken heart.

"Logan, she'd be dead without you. You've saved her several times, too many times to name them all—and without her, you'd have never learned any compassion to the rest of the world." She said the last part half-way joking and half-way serious—he gave her a look that told her he wasn't amused, "Look, she's gonna leave tomorrow thinkin' you hate her and feeling guilty about what she said tonight and feeling depressed because the man she loves doesn't love her back which is the equivalent of hating her in her mind. At least let her decide before you judge for her what's best."

"'Ro, she don't know what's best an--!"

"Her plane leaves at 10:15 tomorrow morning. Talk to her before she leaves, Logan—you'll regret it if you don't."

"But--!"

"Do you hate her?" she was getting annoyed with his stubbornness.

"I thought we already covered this." He said, almost sulking as he took another swig from the bottle. Storm just glared at him, daring to avoid the question, he glanced at her and caved, "No, I couldn't hate her if I even wanted to. I—I want what's best for her."

"You said yourself, Logan, you're not her father. Don't act like one now." She warned. They both stopped talking as the door creaked open and shut again quietly. Rogue trudged past the door, his jacket still help tightly around her. She kept her head down, her wet, stringy hair hung in her face like blinders on either side, and the bright white stripe was now a soggy grayish color. She kept walking, quietly moving up the stairs to the second floor dorms, moving slowly and mechanically—zombie-like and looking dead with dark eyes and her too big clothes sticking to her thin frame. Logan looked torn, and he'd already scooted back and halfway stood up before he knew what he was doing and sat himself back down. Storm gave him a pointed look that said he'd just proved her point.

"I wouldn't bother her tonight—but Logan, she's leaving in the morning—and she isn't coming back. The Professor has sworn me to secrecy, and her location won't ever be looked at or thought of ever again." Storm said, taking her leave with those final cryptic words. Logan sat and sipped his now warm drink, a sour look crossing his face as he snuffed out the cigar. When he finally did move, he couldn't help himself as he walked past her room to listen to any sounds that might give him an indication or something—he didn't even know anymore…but all he could hear was the sound of water running from a shower. He sighed and continued moving, finally making it to his own room to brood for the rest of the night.

Rogue felt like shit. Her eyes were bloodshot still, her face seemed swelled ever so slightly, and she could only curse mildly under her breath as she looked at the clock. Her room was barren, having packed everything up the day before. All her belongings sat in a small pile at the end of her bed, packed nicely in three bags, one of which had been with her since she'd left her home in Mississippi and hitchhiked to the Canadian wilderness. She threw the covers off of herself, scratching her head lightly as she eyed the sunlight streaming through her window with hatred. Her mind was slightly sluggish as it reminded her of last night's events. She didn't know if he'd even want to say good-bye to her, but she'd keep the jacket nonetheless. If nothing else it might help ease the pain of not seeing him. She sighed, wondering if she was doing the right thing—maybe she should've waited about this and maybe she should fix things with Logan before leaving for good, and….and she was scared out of her mind. But she'd known her little speech wouldn't do any good. She hadn't even planned to give the speech anyways. She wished he'd have just left like everyone expected him too, after Alcatraz—she might've been able to handle everything better. She couldn't help but wondering if this would the last time she'd ever see him again. She sighed, beginning to get ready for the last morning she'd spend as Rogue, and the lifetime ahead her that she'd spend as Marie D'Ancanto, and she almost hates herself for her own decision.

She didn't know how she was going to survive anywhere else. It'd been so long since she'd been on her own, so long since she'd seen anywhere other than Westchester, New York—and now she was moving to Texas. She'd already been up north, seen the things she had wanted to see as a child. Why not further explore the south? It was going to be a long plane ride, and after she got on that plane—Rogue would no longer exist. And that scared her more than anything. She hadn't been Marie in over three years. She felt naked, vulnerable—and most of all alone. Her powers had connected her to people, had helped her make the most loyal of friends, helped her meet the nicest people ever, helped her face her fears, helped her find a purpose—and now what did she have? Nothing. She still knew those people, still cherished every memory, still loved each and every one of them just as she had before—but she was human now. Just another _Homo sapien_ looking for a way to pass the time and get by in this world. What would she do now?

She stopped thinking. She'd already been over this with her own innerself. She'd been over this with the Professor and with Storm. The Mansion's doors were always open to her should she ever need a safe-haven. Hesitancy wasn't going to get her out of her own emotional tornado. Of course, she was still surprised that the Professor had actually agreed to it. He could've made her stay if he'd felt the need…and he'd probably felt the need when she'd asked for that particular request. She'd asked him if he could help her set up her own place somewhere else, someplace she'd never been. Of course, she wouldn't forget that she made the decision after having stared at a note from Logan as Storm could only stare at her bandaged wrists that she'd ripped open with her teeth about five hours prior to the meeting. It was a wonder the Professor had agreed with it when she'd asked the first time—but maybe he'd realized being anywhere away from Westchester, and the good and bad memories that accompanied it, was for the best.

She was drying her hair with a towel, fresh from the shower, when someone knocked. She vaguely pondered the idea of doing nothing, and pretending she couldn't hear it. She shook it away, as she walked towards it, the least she could do on her last morning as an X-Man is be sociable. The knocking became louder and had gone to the level of incessant banging against the polished oak door.

"Hold yer horses, sugah—I'm comin' already!" she grumbled irritated already. The banging was harsh, definitely masculine. Finally she unlocked it, opening the door only to be staring face to face with a certain Russian, "Piotr? What're ya doin' here?"

"Rogue…I—I heard you were leaving today. Is that true?" he asked quietly, his eyes not able to stay on her face, but darting to the background of her room.

"Yeah, why?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow in question.

"Oh…well…I wanted to say that…" he trailed off again, eyes on something he was fidgeting with in his hands, "I'll miss you." He said, finishing, smiling a little ruefully as he held out his hand, the one holding something. She held out her ungloved, small, pale hand palm up and marveled at the small object that he dropped. It was a beautifully decorated charm bracelet. Obviously Russian from the designs and charms, she gasped.

"Pete…you didn't have ta—!"

"Don't worry about it, you're family Rogue, and when family starts going away we give them gifts to remember us by." He said good-naturedly.

"Oh Piotr!" she hugged him, and after the initial shock, he, too, hugged her back. It was over quickly, though. She put on the bracelet, smiling softly at the sparkles it gave off when the sunlight hit it just right.

"Just remember that there are other people that care for you, Rogue. And if you ever need help, if you ever need anything, me and the rest of us are here for you." He said, and she knew he meant it. She had known about the Russian's affections for her, but she had also made it very clear to him awhile back, that she did not return those feelings. He still remained one of her closest friends, though.

"Thanks, Pete. I'll remember that." She said, already missing him a little. He stepped back, turning once more to her before completely walking off.

"Good luck wherever you're going, Rogue." And he walked back down the hall, turning at the stairs to go to the kitchen for breakfast. She sighed, unable to hide her emotional turmoil as she retreated back to her room, closing the door softly with a click. She closed her eyes, focusing on breathing, repeating her own little mantra over and over in her head.

_You can do this. You can do this. You can do this._

_You don't have choice._

_It's do or die._

_You can do this…_

_You can do this…_

_You can do this…_

She opened her eyes, determination setting in them. She wasn't going to think about it. She refused to think about everything she was leaving behind. She was starting a new chapter in her book, and entirely new life. She couldn't afford to be hesitant. She couldn't afford to stay here any longer knowing that she would always be second-best to a corpse.

She couldn't stay here any longer knowing that _he _didn't love her, not even a little bit.

And so she resumed packing, muttering reassurances to herself, and not stopping to reminisce about any of the items she was throwing away (specifically photos). Gone was Rogue, the minute she got in that taxi that would be here within another hour to take her to airport, she was Marie D'Ancanto.

And there was nothing she could do to change that. Stopping for a split second she realized what she was holding. And she couldn't take it anymore. Her emotional barrier cracked, and as the first tears fell, she sank down to the floor, crying for the second time, trying to ignore the smirking face of Logan staring up at her from the ground where the photo had landed.

God, life sucked.

**:Part V:**

"_I think you should follow your instincts."_

Logan had been pacing around his room for hours and hours on end—unable to sit still, unable to stop thinking, unable to do anything productive except mutter and pace. God, he was pathetic. He loved her, she loved him—it was simple right? No. She was so innocent, so…pure. And he was so…well, words didn't describe what he was—at least, not polite ones. He'd already attempted to make himself go talk to her, and he'd only ended up pacing in the hallway half-way there. He had to do this. That girl meant more to him than he could fathom, he knew that. He really did—that's why he wanted to let her go. Because he didn't he could stand himself if he held her back from being all she could be. He growled at the image that he'd come up with the night before. Marie and her perfect little life and family, and the fickleness of the young man and the broken heart and the realizations of what the young man had really been like come far too late. He could see it all—humans were cruel like that. He yelled and sliced away at the wall, a habit he'd grown accustomed to after she'd first been brought back from Alcatraz.

So there he stood, panting from the force and the anger that he'd just unleashed on the poor wall and chester-drawers, the shredded wood staring at him unforgiving. It even seemed as if the furniture was accusing him! He growled again, this was ridiculous. This was just dumb, not even he could justify the cowardice he was displaying—had been displaying for the past four hours, thirty-five minutes, and twenty seconds. He wrenched open his door and stalked down the hallway, displeasure obvious in the scowl that seemed permanently set on his face. Before he could hesitate, before he could even think of what he was doing or what he would say to her—the girl that he'd almost broken beyond repair. He knocked, loudly.

"Rogue!" No answer, "Marie?!" the door swung open as his fist hit it one more time. His eyes darted at the ridiculously spotless room that smelled of Rogue and salt water. She'd been crying again.

"Marie?" he took a step inside, and then it dawned on him to look at the clock.

"_Her plane leaves at 10:15 tomorrow morning. Talk to her before she leaves, Logan—you'll regret it if you don't."_ Storm's words floated back to him.

"Shit!" Logan cursed loudly, and ran out, the door swinging wildly behind him.

The fluorescent green numbers on the clock on the nightstand flashed 10:00 mockingly.

Rogue had officially become Marie. That's what her license said, that's what every identification card on her said. Anna Marie Raven. The name sounded foreign. She'd said a couple times, just to get the feel of it on her tongue, but it didn't sound right. It felt like a shirt that was two sizes to small, the name unable to convey the entirety of who she was. The simpleness of it taking away some attributing characteristics of her personality. She supposed she'd get used to it. Maybe it wasn't too small, but too big. Maybe she was just a small little girl, like the one that had runaway from her home in Mississippi out of fear. Maybe the name was too big, and placed the burden of having to live up to it. Giving her the burden of having to, needing to fit in with the rest of society, unable to be an outcast any longer. It wasn't a choice. This was something that was being forced on her, and she'd have to fill those shoes of this human girl that was good, pure, and _normal_. She sighed, she was thinking again. She'd have to stop that. She wasn't going to be able to get on the dumb plane if she kept that up. She still held her suitcase and duffel bag in her hands, her fingers wrapping around the handle of the dark green suitcase tightly. She wore gloves for the security factor, dark green—just like the suitcase. Habit she supposed, and she needed all the security she could get if she was going to go through with this. She took a deep breath, beginning to walk into the airport, after having stood in front of it for so long staring at it like it was a demon waiting to swallow her up. People probably thought she was nuts, but the picture was right. Those revolving doors were waiting to swallow her up, and completely obliterate the person she'd been. Not that she didn't want that too happen—it was just a scary idea. Taking another deep breath, she pushed against the glass door, entering the last place she'd ever see of New York.

Logan had used the motorcycle he'd grown so fond of, the one that had originally belonged to the late Scott Summers. The best thing about the bike was the hyperdrive speed, he could get to the airport in half the time it would normally take when following all the laws of the road and going a reasonable speed. But even with the added bonus of cutting his time in half—that only left him five minutes to find her and convince her to not get on the plane. He gripped the gas harder, knuckles white—he'd be damned if he let her get away.

She was standing on the edge of waiting area, knowing full-well her flight would be called to board within five minutes. She was twitchy, antsy with fear and excitement at seeing a new place. But she still couldn't help the tears that were running freely down her face.

He hadn't even come to wish her goodbye.

She sniffled, trying not to go into the throws of an all-out emotional breakdown. Not here. Not now. Maybe later after she'd landed in the southern state of Texas and found her apartment.

"_Flight 226, all passengers please board."_ The mechanical female voice called over the speakers. She looked up at the hanging signs, wishing everyone that left here a farewell. If only…

He hadn't even had the decency to let her see him one last time. She bit her lip, readjusting her duffel bag on her shoulder before taking a deep breath and starting to walk over to the portal to her new life…

"Marie!" she froze and turned, eyes widening as she hastily wiped away the tears that she hadn't realized were there.

"Logan? What are you—_mmf_!" his arms had wrapped around her waist, pulling her to him as close as possible and holding her there steadily. He kissed her hard, almost punishing in its intensity. There was no talking, no thinking, just acting on instinct—finally taking his own advice. Her mouth was soft against his, and it took him a moment to realize she was kissing him back hesitantly. She tried to pull away, even if she was kissing him back, she wouldn't allow this without some sort of fight, but he held on to her, tracing her lips with his tongue. The gasp he received was enough to allow him entrance to her warm cavern, and he plunged forward, sweeping against the inside of her mouth and pulling her closer. She couldn't help the small moan that escaped her as he sucked on her tongue for a moment before he finally pulled back in need of oxygen. He gazed at her, eyes filled with apologies and promises, confessions of sins and love, and a new revelation of what he'd known all along. She could only stare right aback, almost ashamed of how much she'd enjoyed the kiss. She glowed an even deeper shade of scarlet as she realized he could probably smell it. Logan gave her a guilty grin, that proved he could, in fact, smell just how much she had enjoyed it, and she could only try and catch her breath again.

"You really thought you could leave without me, darlin'?"

"Logan—I." he stopped her, already talking over her, knowing she would try to rationalize. Knowing she would try to make him feel better for not loving her, if that were the case—knowing she didn't want him to be with her out of mere obligation. Knowing that she loved him and only him.

Knowing that she didn't know it had been reciprocated all along.

"Marie… I'm takin' my own advice and followin' my instincts any I ain't letting you go. You're stuck with me, kid—." And she smiled, understanding the meanings of his words.

"Is that term really appropriate now, sugah?" she asked, wrapping her arms lazily around his neck, and looking up at him with gleaming green eyes. He smirked at her and he pulled her to him.

"It's you who I think isn't bein' appropriate, darlin'." She blushed scarlet, not noticing the intercom announcing that her plane was leaving. She smiled, nevertheless, hugging him—pulling him close so she could smell the scent of cigars and pine.

"I love you, Logan." She whispered, breathing in his scent, the only thing that could make her heart stop aching. She had expected, dreaded, the feeling of him tense against her at her words. But all she felt were his arms wrap around her in an embrace that completely encompassed her entire being and felt his warm breath ghost across the top of her head. His head lowered, as he buried his face in her hair, he spoke softly, and she could feel his lips move against her head.

"You're my one and only, kid. This was my choice, and don't you ever forget it."

If only it had happened that way. If only he'd been two seconds faster. If only love stories were true, and happy endings always found the people that deserved them. If only she'd waited a little longer, if only the flight hadn't been planned at all. If only he'd thought that mayhaps she wouldn't wait for him forever. She could picture it so perfectly, her expression would be of pure bliss and happiness and his mirror her own—but her daydreamings had yet to come true, and she doubted that this would be any different. Although, if it had, it would've been the perfect ending to her story, and the perfect beginning to _theirs_.

But it didn't, and it wasn't. So she sits on the plane alone, looking out the window for the last time at New York, marveling at how simple it was to get on the plane and leave it all behind. How easy…she would've thought it would have been harder—like pulling teeth or getting a heart transplant. She felt tears beginning to fall, even as the plane began to take off. She wiped them away quickly—this had been her decision and she was going to stick to it.

"Damn right I am," she whispered to the cold window, staring at her reflection…"Damn right."

**

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A/N: Don't worry, it's not the end. There will be a sequel! Yes, there will be. Should be posted up soon, I've gotta work a few plot flaws out of it, but after that it should be good. Sorry this took so long to post, I didn't realize I was missing that much story out of one single part. So—anyways, please review! Thanks!

**The one and only**

**Miranda Panda**


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